Need
by jessicalange
Summary: Cordelia Goode has never been able to make her mother proud. multiple moments between cordelia and fiona goode throughout the progression of season 3.


It begins with: Fiona dropping her off at the doorstep of Miss Robichaux's Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies. A woman waits for them, a woman with acres of red hair and drapes of purple-and-blue silk hanging over her thin form, and it's odd because Cordelia feels almost immediately at comfort alongside her, in a way she's never felt with Fiona.

Her mother wore red, before. When she was younger, Cordelia would see her in red and blue, darker and calmer colors when the shades she wore weren't crimson, scarlet, blood-red like the liquid that spilled from Cordelia's wounds, the wounds that Fiona never healed or kissed or helped her with because she was too busy having sex with one of the second halves of her many affairs with men (and sometimes, women) — but on the day she's dropped off, her mother wears black and red, something half-and-half that makes her look like some poor mockery of a jester. (Later, Cordelia realizes a kind of theme: the older Fiona gets, the more her wardrobe turns dark, black, black as her heart, black as her soul.)

But still, Fiona's beautiful. Fiona's always been beautiful; at least, Cordelia's always thought so, and so has everyone else. Tall and intimidating and striking, smooth-voiced, breathing out plumes of cigarette smoke through red-painted lips. That's Fiona. For as long as Cordelia can remember, she's smelled of cigarettes and the most expensive perfumes a Supreme can buy. As a child, she liked watching her mother dress and put on makeup. She'd spent at least an hour each morning preparing herself, swathed in clinging dresses and tall-heeled black shoes that make her legs look longer. Cordelia — _young_ Cordelia — has never done the things another child might do.

Because she knows better. She's always known better.

She resisted the urge to try on her mother's lipstick, doesn't go through the woman's closet. When thunder cracked over their house and rain poured down outside of the windows, she'd only burrow deeper into her blankets and think _Mother wouldn't like it if you cried. Don't cry._ It usually worked, the mere thought of her mother's disapproval.

Yes, Fiona's always been _gorgeous._

Fiona does hug her before she leaves. It's awkward and it's quick, tense and unwilling. She can feel in the embrace that the woman doesn't really want to hug her, "Make me proud," she whispers, inches away from Cordelia's face. Cordelia can smell the smoke on her breath and the perfume on her wrists as she cups Cordelia's face briefly, fingers stroking her cheek. The touch is not warm, and neither are Fiona's words. And her gaze is just the same. It's all false, but she takes it greedily just the same.

Even false affection is better than nothing.

Cordelia never _does_ make her proud. Not really.

There is a long pause where their relationship is nothing and means nothing when Fiona drives off in the back of a taxi, off to wherever she wants to go — Paris, Switzerland, New York, L.A., around the entire world if she wants to. That's the privilege you have when you're a Supreme. You can choose to abandon all of your responsibilities, even your own daughter, and dump them on unsuspecting others, while you go to soak yourself in luxury and sex, of wealthy men who mean nothing and the most expensive wines.

She's never mattered to her mother before. Cordelia's stupid, to think she means anything now. She wipes the tears away and looks to Myrtle as they enter the academy alongside one another, trying to be strong, like her mother is. Trying not to be a vulnerable, weak mess. It fails, but unlike Fiona, Myrtle doesn't seem to judge her for such a thing.

"Will you be my mother now?"

No, Cordelia's never made her mother proud.

—

Cordelia learns, grows, hardens. In those years away from her mother, she finds herself less sad and more steely-eyed. Myrtle touches her and smiles, calls her _baby bird_ and says she's proud, and if she closes her eyes she can imagine that she's truly, overwhelmingly happy, and that it's Fiona alongside her, being so kind to her. Even that stops, because the guilt makes it. Myrtle is better than Fiona is, and she shouldn't act as if she's only a replacement for the woman.

So she doesn't.

Fiona calls, sometimes. Four times, actually; years apart. The first is a year after Fiona first drops her off, and it's a quick, strange call. She realizes only hours later that the slur she heard in her mother's voice was not sleep but alcohol. It makes sense why Fiona ended the call with an _I love you._ She only ever means it when she's drunk, after all, and even then she doesn't really mean it in the slightest.

The second time is two years later, and she's sober and the call is much longer. Fiona asks about what she's learning, but Cordelia has an inkling that she doesn't really care.

The third time is another year and a half later, and it ends in an argument and Cordelia throwing the phone at the wall with such strength that it shatters. She wakes up Myrtle with the sound — for Fiona had called in the middle of the night — and the woman finds her crying, curled up against her headboard. She pets her hair, calls her _little bird_, apologizes for nothing and when she falls asleep in the elder witch's arms, she wakes up to Myrtle's flowery perfume surrounding her still even though the woman's gone, so different than her mother's.

And she thinks _I won't ever cry over my mother again._

That's false, of course. It's such a lie that she believes herself, but she doesn't cry over Fiona until a long, long time later. That means something, right?

The fourth time is another few years later when Cordelia has just begun to think that her mother will never speak to her again. She'd be okay with that, but then — why does a spark of euphoria and excitement rise to life in her chest? She tries to squash it immediately, but she's unable to. It's squashed anyway, because Fiona's voice is cold, her tone uncaring, and her words meaningless as ever.

Those calls end. Fiona doesn't ever call again.

Cordelia stops hoping she will.

—

It's so many years later when Fiona returns. She's aged well, not that Cordelia will ever admit such a thing. She looks just as frightening and beautiful as she ever has, in a clinging black gown. She sucks in smoke like it's her lifeline, criticizes Fiona harshly, stubs out a cigarette on the edge of the headmistress' worktable. Headmistress. She's worked so hard to get to where she is now, shoving lingering thoughts of her mother out of her mind until they're gone completely, and with one swift and sudden appearance, Fiona's come back, and ruined all of it.

Ruin is what she does best.

The smell of her mother's strong perfume lingers in the air of the greenhouse long after the familiar sound of her just-as-ridiculously-pricey Manolos fades, as does the feeling of the way Fiona's fingers pulled through her ponytail, tugging lightly. Playfully, even; and _annoyingly_. She hasn't seen her mother in years, hasn't talked to her for the same amount of time. For all she knew, Fiona could have been dead.

But clearly she isn't, because she watches her mother strut out of the room as she lights another cigarette with a flick of her wrist and the click of a golden lighter, and it's all too real. Everything around her melts and all she can hear is the pulse in her ears, for minutes. Maybe hours, or a year for all she knows because she can't move. She just stays there, braced against the worktable even when her potion bubbles over the rim of the large vial and burns holes in the tabletop.

When Myrtle Snow's voice calls her back to the present, the woman who's been more of a mother to her than her _real_ mother ever will be, Cordelia doesn't make it to the door before falling on her knees and emptying the contents of her stomach out onto the floor, her mother's voice resonating throughout her head. She chokes even when it's all just bile and saliva coming from her mouth, gags on the bitter taste and then, when it's all finally done and over with, allows Myrtle to cradle her and whisper _baby bird_ in her ear in a soothing murmur, stroking back her hair and pressing a kiss to her head.

And then Cordelia gives into the urge to cry, because how can't she? There is no one she hates more than her mother; nothing more she hates more than her mother. The woman has been a constant thorn in her side since the day Cordelia was born. And now she's back, and no matter what Cordelia says or does, she'll never leave.

"My poor little bird," Myrtle whispers softly against her head, long fingers threading through blonde tresses. "I'm so sorry."

Memories of her mother consist of nothing but burning rage, sorrow and tears and absolute _hatred_. Simply knowing that she's back makes her feel like she needs to double over and vomit again, but she isn't sure if she can.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Cordelia rasps against Myrtle's shoulder, feeling sicker than she ever has before. "Why didn't you tell me she was back? Did you just think the problems I have with her would resolve themselves?" In sharp contrast to her mother's perfume, Myrtle's scent is a lighter one. Flowery, and comforting in a way Fiona's own never has been. She breathes it in and prays — for what, she doesn't know.

Fiona was, first, a whore, a liar, a cheater, a thief, a Supreme, an alcoholic, someone who swallowed pills and drowned them in the strongest of whiskeys without even blinking, someone who would force someone up the wall with a mere flick of her hand and make them beg for her forgiveness and for their own lives. And second, a mother. For all the titles she could have possibly had, _mother_ was the one she had never lived up to. Cordelia calls her mother, sure; if she calls her by her given name she knows she'll get a glare that says more than words ever could. Like Fiona actually _cares_ about her daughter's opinion of her.

Which is ridiculous. Fiona's never cared about anyone or anything but herself.

Cordelia can count on one hand the time that her mother has struck her physically. No, that isn't the problem. Not at all. It's the way she feels a need to constantly belittle her daughter, to verbally abuse and put down at every chance she sees and takes. It's the memories of neglect, of a sick longing for nothing but her mother's pride and affection, her compassion, her love. Anything that would even _show_ an ounce of caring for the girl she gave birth to.

The second that Fiona had left her at the academy with no one but Myrtle to take care of her, she realized she'd never get any of that.

"I just only learned of it myself, baby bird." The nickname usually soothes her immediately, but it's hard to be comforted at all by anything when her head is spinning and her stomach is churning and her vision is blurred with tears.

"Why does she always have to ruin everything, Auntie Myrtle?" She sounds like a child, she realizes; a broken, upset child who didn't get their way and it sickens her. Clearly, the woman she considers an aunt doesn't feel the same way because she croons softly and sympathetically, pulling her up and away from the puddle of vomit. Her legs buckle almost immediately, but Myrtle helps her to the rolling stool and sits her down on it, kneeling in front of her. The woman doesn't let go of her hands.

"It'll be absolutely fine, Cordelia. Think of it, you can now threaten that Miss Montgomery with your mother's wrath when she's misbehaving." Cordelia laughs, and then her breath catches on a sob and she begins to cry again. Myrtle, her attempt at comfort failed, sighs and squeezes her hands, standing and straightening herself.

"Come now, baby bird. Wipe your tears." That's Myrtle — a constant source of strength, no matter the situation. Cordelia, knowing she is right, pulls her shoulders back and takes the handkerchief offered. Tartan — of course. She smiles, sniffles, wipes her tears and stands, trying to look for the good in the situation. It truly doesn't work, but then, how could it? There _is_ no good. Not in any of this. "There you go." Myrtle coos, lips curling fondly in her direction.

Myrtle tosses a glance at the vomit on the floor, and then to Cordelia, and back again. She sighs lightly, although Cordelia knows it isn't directed towards her. "I will retrieve Spalding," she says, and vanishes around the corner.

Cordelia breathes in and out, a technique Myrtle had taught her when she had still been in her teenage years. It doesn't work, but she tries to pretend it does, just so she doesn't get sick again.

Eventually, Spalding returns and looks at her somewhat sympathetically as he kneels to clean up her mess with barely a flinch. She wants to ask him _how could you be in love with such an unbearably cruel woman like Fiona_; no, she wants to _yell_ it.

But she doesn't dare.

She's never dared.

—

Cordelia's not fool enough to think that she's really doing this for the Coven, for Madison, for Myrtle. No, it's all for herself. The desire to go through with this plan will be greater than any regret that comes afterwards.

Fiona deserves it.

Fiona deserves death.

Cordelia plots and plots, plans and plans. She tosses the idea of Queenie ever returning to the Coven aside like it's a joke, and it is. Queenie has left, and that is a betrayal larger than she could have imagined the girl capable of. It is her decision; and she will not go on hands and knees begging for her to return. That is not something she will _ever_ do again. If Queenie does return, she will not be welcomed back into the fold. Cordelia refuses the mere thought of it.

And in the end, The Sacred Taking, the ritual, the feeling of simultaneous fear, horror, _oh-my-god-what-have-I-done_ and a sickening euphoria as Madison offers to pull Fiona into a sticky-web trap, with crimson swaths of silk whirling around her legs and a victorious, righteous shrieking laughter as she tells the Supreme of how _she_ is her successor. It's all a lie. And Fiona knows it — she doesn't know how, but she _does_, and she swallows the pills, lies down in fur — and when Myrtle's playing something on the piano, she emerges again, sets the tip of a cigarette aflame and breathes smoke into the air.

And Cordelia — sweet, lovely, once-innocent Cordelia, wants to rip her hair from her own scalp and scream at her own stupidity. How would her mother ever fall for such a farce? That's the thing — she wouldn't. But so involved in her apparent victory was she that she didn't look at how obvious it would have been.

When she sees the chance, she takes it — she goes upstairs, sheds her black turtleneck and cane and wraps the nearest nightgown around her, burrows into her sheets and cries for the first time in many, many years over Fiona Goode, who, even when cancer is eating at her body, _wins_.

And when she wakes up in the morning, makes a pot of coffee and sits down at the table, Fiona enters minutes after herself. The stress and the knowledge of the fact that the silver bullet that lies inches away from her fingers on the kitchen table is _blessed _and only a bullet like that would belong to a witch hunter — is near overwhelming, but all of that fades away when Fiona places a hand on her shoulder, leans close and says, "And you, my dear, I'm so proud of. You really are my daughter."

Those words shake the headmistress to the core. _I'm so proud of. I'm so proud of._ It's sickening how desperate she's been before to hear those words, those words that in the end really mean nothing.

And yes, Cordelia knows, all of her hard work pushing her mother's disdain and hatred and cruelties away from her in the past and focusing on the present and the future instead of the past — all of it is for naught, because when Fiona whispers those words, soft and gentle, warm and loving, compassionate and affectionate and everything she's ever wanted her mother to be towards her, all of her hatred for the woman melts away, leaving something raw and broken and needy and greedy for a mother's love.

And all she's ever accomplished is _nothing_, is falling to pieces around her, crumbling, and she doesn't care, and she refuses to acknowledge the fact that she's really done nothing towards hardening herself against her mother. Nothing at all, because she's finally finished the large circle she's been unknowingly leading herself around. She started out a girl longing for her mother's pride and love, and that's what she is now, again, in this moment.

Everything she's done fades away, because nothing's ever mattered like her own desire for her mother to _care_ about what she's done and what she will do. To care about _her_.

It's all been a circle, one useless and wide circle, and what she thinks she's accomplished, she _hasn't_. But to hear those words from her mother's words, more genuine than anything Fiona's ever said to her—none of that matters now.

"Now you're proud?" she scoffs, but she can feel her lip quivering and she knows Fiona can see it. "Hell, if I knew how easy it was to win your approval I would have made an attempt on your life way before now." She adds those words laughingly, to make the air around them lighten.

Fiona might not know it, but she does: she means every single word.


End file.
